Dead After Dark_Shadow of the Moon Read online

  What the bloody hell had happened here? Drew struggled to his feet, feeling light-headed. That was no doubt because his entire blood supply was currently engaged in the area of his loins. A woman had. . . Had what? Held him immobile while she drank his blood? Given him the most incredibly sensual experience of his life?

  And let's get back to the "woman" part. What woman could do what that one did?

  "There are no such things as ghosts," he murmured to himself. Ghosts weren't warm to the touch. Thinking about how warm she was, and what she had done with that touch, was definitely not redistributing his blood supply. And what ghost made a dent in the bed when she sat on it?

  On the other hand, what human had red eyes and disappeared in a whirl of blackness?

  His head ached so he couldn't think. He ran his hands through his hair. Wait! He strode to a mirror, fingering his neck. It was too damned dark in here to see. He crashed about looking for the candelabra. When he finally found it by nearly knocking it over, he felt for the flint and lit it, then took it over to the mirror on the dressing table, craning to see his neck.

  Two tiny wounds drooled blood. "Christ Almighty!" he whispered. What had happened here? He held the candelabra high and looked around the room. A shiver starting down his back was ruthlessly suppressed. He went to the window. It was a sheer thirty feet to the ground. But there were some vines crawling halfway up the wall. Not enough. She hadn't got out that way. He whirled. Maybe she was hiding in the dressing room. Flinging open the door, he saw it contained only shelves for shoes, a headless mannequin that held coats for brushing, and a tangle of clothes hangers, just as it had when he'd come in to get the hip bath. She wasn't here now. He opened the door to the room beyond. The dust on the carpet was disturbed near the door. But no trail of footprints led to the hallway. She had not escaped this way either. He went back to the dressing room. Nothing said she had ever been here.

  Except the faint perfume of cinnamon and ambergris that lingered in the air.

  She had watched him from the dressing room. Perhaps all evening. He had felt that strange electric energy all night.

  As he bathed? She had ducked into the room adjoining as he got the bath, standing near the door. Had she watched as he wrote, naked, at the desk? As he slept?

  It was intolerable. And strangely erotic. He had never experienced anything more sensual than that light touch on his naked body and the gentle sucking at his neck. Even now his cock was stubbornly erect.

  He took the candelabra back into the bedroom and set it down. His eyes fell on the letter he had written to Emily. He steadied himself. That was why he was here. To find love again that would bring him revenge and heal the wounds he had suffered so long ago, deepened by bitterness until they had eaten away part of his soul.

  He wasn't going to let some ghost, or some trespasser pretending to be a ghost, shake him from his resolve. She could order him to leave this house as much as she wanted. He had survived much worse than a little erotic haunting. He was not about to turn tail and run before he tried to claim what was his. Drew wouldn't miss the look on Melaphont's face when he finally recognized him for anything in the world.

  He folded the letter and put it in its envelope. Tomorrow he would have this letter taken to Emily, and he'd know where he stood. She was no longer married, and she must remember their love. Now, if her father had not poisoned her against him, he had a chance. If the bastard had, well, then Drew would be sorry. And then he'd skip the part about Emily and take revenge on Sir Elias Melaphont in some more direct and forceful way.

  He stalked to the bed, blew out the candles defiantly, and eased himself down in the bed. He did not need light to stave off what lurked in the dark.

  That didn't mean that he would sleep. Drew strode into the Goose and Gander rather later than he intended. He had fallen asleep after all, whether it was from loss of blood, or just the adrenaline subsiding, he wasn't sure. And he had dreamed, waking with another erection. The dreams had not been of Emily.

  The whole thing seemed outlandish in the light of day, except that he had to tie his cravat rather carefully to cover up the twin wounds on his neck.

  Still, he'd decided that it was a trespasser, not a ghost. Didn't some Portuguese friar practice an oriental version of Dr. Mesmer's animal magnetism to exert control over men without using magnets? Abbe Facia. That was the fellow's name. That was how she had controlled him. She must have used some trick of light to make her eyes glow like that. They'd looked just like animal eyes glowing when light shone on them at night, except red. And the wounds? A pair of tacks perhaps—he hadn't seen a knife. The whirling darkness was no doubt a swoon on his part from loss of blood. Well, he was going to search the place in earnest for her later and send her packing.

  "Barton," Drew called. Old Henley was about the only one in the taproom at this hour. He was nursing an ale in the corner. The tapster stuck his bald pate out from a curtain that separated the kitchen from the taproom. He looked pale and drawn. The sheen of sweat on his brow caught the light.

  "Didn't expect ta see ye here this mornin'. Did ye spend th' night?" Barton asked.

  Drew had forgotten the wager. "Yes," he said in clipped tones.

  "Did ye see th' ghost?" Henley wanted to know. "I saw someone." He didn't care to go into detail. "I think I've got squatters up there."

  Both Barton and Henley snorted. "Squatters doesn't suck blood," Henley remarked. "Did she suck yer blood?"

  Drew felt himself coloring. He did not want to have this conversation. "Barton, do you have a boy who could take this note round to The Maples?"

  "Jem took th' cart into Camelford for supplies," Barton apologized. "And Billy's come down with th' influenza. His ma says he's bad." Barton wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. His hand was a little shaky.

  "Damn," Drew said under his breath. He didn't want take the note himself. Was he afraid of meeting Emily?

  "I'll take it fer ye." Old Henley had somehow appeared at his shoulder and was peering at the envelope. He looked up at Drew with a strange expression on his face. Pity? Ah, he had seen it was addressed to Miss Emily Melaphont. That likely wasn't her name any more since Henley had intimated that she had once been married.

  "I'll make it worth your while." Drew fished in his pocket. He didn't care if delivering notes to young widows wasn't respectable behavior.

  "Save it. Ye can deliver it yerself. I'll show ye th' way. I'm goin' right by there."

  No one "went right by" The Maples. It was four miles from the village and stood in its own impressive grounds. He hesitated. Still, Henley was already starting out the door.

  "Don't ye want to collect yer pint?" Barton called. "Later," Drew flung over his shoulder. Henley didn't give him any choice.

  Drew had to pace his long strides to the older, shorter man's. The creature was still spry for all his years. Drew thought he would have to field a lot of questions. But Henley was silent. Drew's pulse raced. He might meet Emily face-to-face in a matter of moments. Henley turned off the road. Drew looked around, disoriented. They were heading up the hill to the church. It was a small affair, fifteenth century, its rough stone mellowed golden with age. His pulse quickened. Perhaps she was dressing the altar with flowers. Would she know him? They had been in love. How could she not? The expression on her face the instant she recognized him would tell everything. He and Henley crunched up the gravel path to the ancient wooden doors, carved with undecipherable pictures in bas relief. He was reaching for the great iron latch when Henley pulled him to one side.

  "Around th' back, son."He started off, eager. Then his steps slowed. The churchyard was back there. Was she putting flowers on a grave? Perhaps her husband's. There was no one in the churchyard. A breeze leavened the heat up here. The grass between the graves still smelled of summer.

  He knew then. His intestines knotted and threw a loop around his heart. He couldn't seem to breathe. Henley was pointing. He didn't have to. Drew walked slowly to the area fenced off with iron
spikes topped with tiny fleur-de-lis. The Melaphonts were all buried there.

  His eyes filled so he could hardly see the inscription on the stone.

  Emily Margaret Melaphont Warner. 1788-1806. May she and her unborn babe find peace everlasting in Jesus' arms. A year. She'd lived only a year after he'd been sentenced. She'd married so soon? Had Drew meant so little to her? She'd died while he was still on the prison hulk. All these years of longing for her had been so useless. She'd been pregnant, too. Who was this Warner fellow she'd loved? He felt cheated. All his dreams of making her love him again, of marrying under the nose of her father in spite for all he'd done to Drew, seemed foolish.

  Drew felt Henley come up behind him. Anger surged up from his belly. "You said she wasn't married, that she was still here."

  "Aye. Truth, when ye come ta think on it." He didn't know what to ask. What difference would any of it make now? His throat was so full he thought he might choke.

  " 'Er father found 'er a 'usband before th' summer turned brown th' year ye left," Henley said philosophically. Drew saw out of the corner of his eye that Henley had taken out a pipe and was tamping down the tobacco in its bowl. "'E were a nice enough lad. Family was weavers, I think. 'Ad factories up ta Cumberland. Paid 'andsome for th' Melaphont name." Henley took an old flint striker from his pocket and lit the pipe, drawing on it to make it catch. "Melaphont made 'em live under 'is thumb up at Th' Maples while 'e put on th' new wing with Warner's money. Said she were poorly and 'e daren't let 'er go. But you know 'im. 'E just wanted control of th' both of 'em." Drew knew. Puffs of smoke curled into the air. "Warner went back to 'is people when she died."

  Poor Emily. Sold off to provide a new wing for The Maples. It had always been a symbol of Melaphont pride. Wait. Through his haze he had let one fact slip by. "The year ye left." Henley knew who he was. He turned fierce eyes on the old man. "Don't think to spread my identity about. You'd find me a formidable foe." He hoped the threat did the trick. He wouldn't actually harm the old man.

  "So ye slipped yer chains," Henley mused. "They can throw ye back inta prison if ye ain't served yer full time. Must 'ave wanted ta come back fair bad."

  "I have a marker to redeem," Drew growled. "You wouldn't want to hold one of my markers, old man."

  "No. Expect I wouldn't," Henley said. " 'Ard to believe an old fool knows 'ow to 'old 'is tongue, Carlowe, but I do." He stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe. "Just ye 'ope ye don't get what ye think ye want right now. Bad business, that. Rots a man's soul."

  Drew managed a sneer. It was a good defense against his hollow feeling. "I haven't got a soul, old man. Remember that." He turned and stumbled down the hill, hardly knowing where he was. Everything had changed. Emily was dead.

  He collected Darley from in front of the tavern and galloped back toward Ashland, anger churning in his belly. All those years he'd dreamed, not knowing she was dead. Not fair. And now he'd have to find another way to exact his revenge on Melaphont. Because those years were Melaphont's fault.

  So the first thing to do was to eject his beautiful squatter. He was going to be spending some time at Ashland while he evolved a new plan to take his revenge and carried it out. He had no desire to spend another sleepless night, or to lose any more blood.

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  4

  She snuggled against him. They had been drowsing together for a while, but he knew she was awake. He had been wondering where to start with his questions. His preoccupation with his mission to find Emily, the incredible sexual attraction they'd felt—all had distracted him and made his denial of those questions easy. But he could no longer ignore them. He would come round to red eyes and disappearing and the wounds at his neck. He was not frightened of her, not after tonight. But he could not dismiss them as mere tricks. He would start his questions with what had happened to him. What he really wanted was to know if she had experienced it, too. "I've never felt anything like that."

  She stretched and pressed her breasts against him. He thought she'd stripped every drop of semen from his body, yet still he felt a stirring in his loins.

  "Good," she said, her mouth softening into a smile.

  "What. . . what was that?"

  "The closeness we felt?"

  We. He nodded, brushing his lips across her hair. She had felt it, too.

  "It is the teaching of the Tantra. It comes from the Hindu, though Buddhists and Jains practice also."

  "They teach sex?" You could study sex? Apparently. She must have.

  "Well, more it is the meditation that they teach. They believe the physical is an expression of the divine. And physical acts can bring you closer to God. Like sex, if you do it correctly."

  "You do it correctly," he murmured, holding her close. Had she done this thing with others? To distract himself from that thought, he asked, "Will you tell me your name now?"

  She looked conscious, as though she didn't realize she had never revealed even this much of herself to him. "Freya. My name is Freya."

  After the Norse goddess of fertility and plenty. That was appropriate. "Freya." He savored it. "Well, Freya, why do you live here alone, without even removing the Holland covers from the furniture and make the villagers think you are a ghost?"

  She stiffened and he thought she would push away from him. Then he felt her soften. Maybe it was resignation. Her voice was small, and she did not look at him. "I am a bad person, Drew. I have done bad things. My father required them of me and of my sisters but we did not protest. One sister went mad from doing them. And I never even thought to refuse. I had never been away from my father's . . . house until he sent my remaining sister and me to England. We were doing this thing, and it was dangerous, and it had perhaps eaten at her mind, as well. I told her she must quit. But she wouldn't. And . . . and then I couldn't do it any more. So I stopped. And that meant I didn't support her. She . . . died." She took a shuddering breath.

  Her sister had died. Perhaps she had as many scars as he did. He waited for her to go on, just holding her.

  "But my job, evil as it was, it was all I knew," she said at last. "If I was not that, who was I? But I knew if I went home

  I wouldn't have the strength to stand against my father when he wanted me to pick up where I left off. So I did not go home. I came here."

  He wouldn't ask her what she did. She was not ready yet to tell him. Not that he thought whatever it was would be evil. He knew she wasn't evil on some deep level he couldn't explain. "And the ghost act was to keep people away."

  She nodded. "I needed time to think. And these English, they are so strict with all their rules for what a woman must not do, and how she must be attended always by servants, and receive callers and live just so and I could not stand this. So I lived outside their censure."

  "What were you thinking about?" he asked softly, moving a strand of her midnight hair away from her forehead.

  "Who I was." He could understand that. He'd defined himself as a bastard, a servant in Melaphont's stable, a lover of Emily, a prisoner, a pirate, and now a gentleman. He wasn't sure he was any of those, not really. He nodded, and waited. •

  "I look back on all those months." Her voice was pensive. "I was half-alive. Not thinking, though that was what I came here to do. Not feeling." The silence stretched.

  "Does that mean you know who you are now?" She chuckled. "No. I am more confused than ever. I know only that I was not living."

  "Well, that's something.""Yes." She looked up at him and smiled. He could not help but swell a bit with pride. He might not be alone in the sensation of joining tonight. But if there was any way forward together there were other things he must know.

  "So tell me about the red eyes and the disappearing." He didn't dare mention the wounds at his neck.

  "Must you ruin all with your questions?" she snapped, pushing away from him and sitting up. "Can you not just live in the moment?" She looked around, as though she realized where she was for the first time. She got out of bed,
gloriously naked, and pulled the heavy draperies closed. "It will be light soon. I must move my things from the other room."

  "I'll help," he said. But he felt bleak inside. The bond he'd felt to her had snapped.

  He got hold of himself. He couldn't dally with a woman anyway. The revenge he'd desired for fifteen years had to be planned all over again. Melaphont must be his focus, not this tiny woman who had ravished his soul as well as his body tonight. She had secrets she would not share. He had no time to pry them from her. Where was his determination now? He forced himself to think about revenge. Money. Money was what Melaphont cared about. That and his house. Then those things were what he would lose.

  By the time she had finished moving her things, it was daylight. She was getting sleepy. The room was over warm, but she couldn't open the draperies to catch a breeze. Drew was sweating and pale. She could not make him suffer here. "Go to your room and get some sleep." She managed a smile.

  He examined her face, nodded once. And he left. She felt bereft. She had trusted him last night with her fragile psyche as well as her body. And she had felt almost .. . reborn. Until he had ruined everything with questions that reminded her what a gulf there really was between them. They were not even the same species, no matter how close they had felt. She lived forever and he but a blink of time. The feeling of being joined spiritually was only the effect of the Tantric exercise she had always made the Aspirants practice. It wasn't real closeness, and certainly not anything else she might name. She had just been surprised by his tenderness.

  She could never even tell him she was vampire. It was strictly against the Rules established by her father and the Council of Elders. Even if it wasn't, she couldn't trust him enough for that. He would be appalled, as humans always were.